


Deja Vu

by Lionfire42



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Because Reds and Blues, Body Modification, Caboose is Not An Idiot, Carolina is a Good Soldier, Child Soldiers, Clones, Everyone is Emotionally Stunted, Explosions, False Memories, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Future Fic, Grif Can't Wait to Not Care, Identity Issues, Memories, Off-screen Relationship(s), Once They're Free and All, Out of Character, Post-Season/Series 13, Super Soldiers, They're Also All Smartasses, but not too much, kind of, until she's not, you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:52:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9370937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionfire42/pseuds/Lionfire42
Summary: In a bunker far, far underground, a man screamed in pain as fire ripped through his mind.In the far future, Chorus is once again a mess, and many feel it's up to the heroes of the past to clean it up again.Whether they want to or not.





	1. DW-112

In a bunker far, far underground, a man screamed in pain as fire ripped through his mind.

_“-ever, of all time.”_

“What is your designation?” The woman’s voice was clinical, devoid of any empathy.

Self-preservation made the man respond instinctively; failure to do so would trigger another violent punishment. “DW-112!”

Pain again. The images, the voices.

__“-Rookie-“_ _

__“David-“_ _

The sound of gunfire. The scent of paint. A flash of crimson, bright against turquoise- _“It’s aqua!”_ -armor, slowly staining the ground.

He understood his mistake. They had trained him well. “DW-112, sir!” He was a good soldier, even when he was bad.

“That is correct. “ A man, the one who he responded too, the one he called Sir, appeared in the corner of his vision, tight skinsuit stretched over thick muscles. ”That does make me wonder, however, about your answer fourteen hours ago. What did you call yourself?”

“I don’t remember, sir.” A lie. He had become good at those, as Sir tended to stare directly into DW-112’s eyes with his own cybernetic red ones.

Red. Like blood. Like on Tuck-

No. No. Don’t think about that. Not here. Not now. Later. Alone.

Sir seemed pleased, though, as he looked at someone beyond DW-112’s head. “This one shows promise, does it not?”

“Yes, Sir,” the woman responded, in that same cold tone. “The cloning process is still imperfect, but the eleventh batch has shown significant ability. Better adaption to the enhancements, less memory feedback, better response to the flash training.”

“Didn’t we lose one recently?”

“Yes. 114 went on a rampage and had to be put down. However, his brain scans had shown anomalies for a while now. He was slated for recycling anyway. None of the other seem to be showing the usual degradation symptoms.” A rustle of paper. “115 and 118 aren’t showing the same aptitude to the training, though their performances are still well within margins. Should I schedule a reaping?”

“Nah.” Sir gestured and two silent, masked soldiers came forward, unshackling DW-112 from the steel chair and disconnecting wire and needles before hefting him up over their shoulders so he hung loosely between them. Just as well, really. Now that he was sure that no more pain was forthcoming, his mind was beginning to shut down in exhaustion. “Let them fix it up in the field. If they fail, well, nature will have it’s way with them.”

Sir’s voice grew fainter as he was dragged from the room. He briefly passed out, but reawakened as he was hauled up and roughly stripped. He let his mind wander during this, especially since the soldiers tended to grope and touch, because showing discomfort was a human gesture and he wasn’t a human. He was a Project, a thing, a weapon, created to…do something. He wasn’t allowed to feel human.

He was manhandled into a large capsule and forced into another steel chair. They strapped him down again and machines forced needles and panels into and onto his restrained limbs. A cod-piece like suction cup was nestled between his legs while another was nestled between his back cheeks. The door hissed closed and the lights dimmed. A hiss was heard as gas filled the room and his eyes closed as his thoughts began to fade.

Usually he eagerly awaited the guided descent into unconsciousness, but recently a memory, a good one, one usually not full of blood and screaming, had made itself known, flouting from the depths of his copied mind, and he held onto it with a secret, desperate longing. A memory of a man, with dark skin and dreadlocks and a charming grin. A memory of stunning passion and a tired murmur against his shoulder. “Bow chicka bow wow.”

DW-112 faded away with the silent name of a person he didn’t know escaping his lips. _Tucker_.


	2. Chapter 2

DG-085 was…not bored really. Though he could argue that his existence was pretty boring. Almost every faucet of his time was meticulously planned and coordinated with the aid of people in white lab coats and angry looking people with guns.

No, he supposed _depressed_ would be the word he would use. Not an easy description really. As far as the eggheads (he’d learned that word from a smoking guard) and the guards were concerned, he was a thing, and things didn’t have emotions. Which made it very hard to put a word to what he felt at any time.

He knew about anger. Anger was something that was encouraged, if carefully cultivated, especially towards training dummies and holographic opponents and traitors. He knew even a bit about desire. There was the desire to sleep a bit more and not have to face each day outside his capsule. There was the desire for food, for more of the trice daily grey bar given to each DG unit, because those ten minute rest periods were some of the few times he could immerse himself in a task of his choosing. He could choose how much he bit at each time, how quickly he chewed, whether each mouthful was swallowed immediately or as a pasty, mushy pile at the end.

(The desire burned more fiercely, though not fiercely enough to be noticed, for something other than his rations. He had had something else once, when doing vehicular exercises on the surface. A guard had dropped a small square of something on the dusty ground. When doing the cooldown stretches, he had lunged forward ever so slightly on the way to touch his toes and snagged it, slipping it into his mouth and disguising the movement as one to wipe the sweat from his brow. The square had quickly melted in his mouth. It was sticky and thick and so sweet it made his teeth hurt, and it took every ounce of his training to not cry out in wonder.)

But depression was something new. It was something he’d heard one of the guards mention (really, the guards were actually the only source of information outside his flash-training he had), and it seemed to fit with how he felt. Sluggish, disembodied. He never really immersed himself in every task and exercise demanded of him as it was. (Hard too really. He paid attention, had seen what happened to other DGs. Show too much enthusiasm for anything other than death, and it was anomaly, something that was fixed with wipes, or torture resistance training. Don’t show enough, and it’s seen as lack of effort, and was as such corrected with a reaping, or concluded with recycling.) But this was different. He found it harder to care, found the scientists starting to frown at him more. He knew it was only a matter of time, and wasn’t surprised when he woke up after his sonic shower and was escorted to his armor and then a sandy training ground before his first meal.

“DG-085.” The man in front of him had eyes of steel, and a tone like a buckling bulkhead. “You are one of four to have shown insufficient progress. I hope today you will prove the worth of your continued existence to Chorus.”

Four? That was unusual. Two was a rare enough event, and he could hear the excited murmur of guards as they started to crowd around the edges of the training grounds. Six more guards walked through, each bookending another person in colored armor. One had DG-085’s face, though his eyes were wild, like one of the feral dogs that he fought in hand to hand or one of the people DG-085 was told were prisoners, or spies, or traitors and was ordered to torture or shoot.

The other two though…

DG-085 felt like a bucket of ice had been dumped on him. For one, the other two _didn’t look like him_. They had short brown hair, like his only lighter. They had gangly limbs and thin fingers. Their pale faces were covered in freckles and red, glowing cybernetic eyes. That’s where the difference ended. In one’s eyes, there was a cruel glint. This is one who was eager for death, and had gotten so out of control that this reaping was less of a punishment and more of a gift. But the other’s eyes were flickering around, analyzing and panicked, wanting to survive, but not especially enthusiastic about what he had to do in order to make that happen. Those eyes meet DG-085’s own.

A flash. The sight of tan sand. The smell of gasoline. The taste of kicked up dust. The feel of the sun, bearing down on his armored neck. And a voice.

_Ever wonder why we’re here?_

 

RS-093 was in the silent midst of a panic attack. He’d never been to a reaping before, had always done what he was ordered with no fuss. Anything to survive.

But he’d failed. He’d hesitated. The onsite hack had gone horribly wrong and it had been all his fault. He’d been assigned the task of locking out the Enemy hacker from the Enemy’s system, and then trapping them inside while his handlers coordinated the gassing and bombing of the Enemy base. He had done so with ease, had nearly shut down all override attempts when his eye caught the image from one of his computers many open windows. It was the feed from a security camera, and it showed several soldiers trying to pry one of the many doors open from within the base. In that single moment, as though he could see the one set upon killing him, a soldier turned and stared right into the lens. It was a young woman, eyes wide with desperation. She stared for only a moment before her eyes closed in resolution, accepting of the coming fate.

That one moment shook RS-093 to his core, making his throat feel tight and his fingers to tremble. He paused his hack for but a moment, but that was enough. The Enemy he was virtually sparring with gained a foothold and threw off his code. By the time RS-093 had regained his placing, it was too late. He struggled to play catch up as the Enemy held his efforts at bay, having managed to restart the security systems and unlock the doors. RS-093’s handler was forced to call for a retreat; the forces they’d brought with them had been more of a blitz group, only really there to cause lots of casualties quickly and with minimal effort, and thus were not really equipped to deal with a fully armed and revenge driven Enemy force.

And now here he was. He had failed and was going to be recycled for it, because his opponent, RS-097 was a bloodthirsty unit with a preference for electricity and all the nasty ways one died because of it.

It was a shame really, because he wouldn’t have the opportunity to contemplate the two other men in the arena, both wearing dark orange armor. They were heavyset, their forms making it difficult to tell what was fat and what was muscle. They weren’t especially tall and they both had dark brown eyes and hair. One looked almost rabid, almost foaming at the mouth as his head jerked around in quick little twitches. The other had looked bored, but now he was alert and staring directly at RS-093.

Something buried deep within him, preserved in the very strands of his DNA, stirred.

_“I think it looks more like a puma…”_

A sharp tug broke the fog in his mind, and RS-093 swiftly complied with his guards movements as they maneuvered him to a side of the circular arena. RS-097 was positioned across the field, facing him, while the other two men were forced to RS-093’s left and right. The sane looking one was on his right, and he had to resist the urge to look at him, instead focusing his attention on the maroon armored man with his features. He knew that RS-097 would be going for him immediately, would take pleasure in recycling him.

There were no helms in the arena. Theoretically, it was so the scientists could analyze their visible reactions as well as vitals, always looking to gain more knowledge on their subjects. This was true; however it was far also more entertaining to watch people die with their faces uncovered. It served a purpose to all, the scholars and the spectators.

None of the field combatants knew this, of course. All RS-093 knew as the light turned yellow and gravity hammers and lethal shock-sticks dropped from the ceiling and unto the arena floor was that he really wished he had his helm so he could at least block out the crowds excited roars.

When the light turned green, RS-093 immediately lunged forward and grabbed a hammer before he hurled himself back from the rabid brown eyed man. The crazed, desperate creature seized a hammer of his own before he swung it at RS-093. He missed and nearly clipped RS-097, who snarled in response and plunged a shock-stick right into the wild man’s ribs. The man howled but didn’t drop, instead shook his head rapidly and proceeded to smash the handle of his hammer right into RS-097’s face.

RS-093 didn’t realize that he was rapidly backpedaling until he hit someone whom promptly reached out to steady him. He whipped around, raising his hammer.

 

DG-085 had hesitated as the light had signaled the start to the fight. It was a good thing he had, because his counterpart had rushed forward to grab a weapon, and ended up in combat with the bloodthirsty red-eyed man. The other man had grabbed a weapon but had retreated from the fight so quickly that he hadn’t taken the time to see where he was running to. DG-085 barely had time to put his hands up before the man collided with him and nearly fell. Instinct pushed him to steady the stranger, who promptly (and rather gracefully, all things considered) turned and raised his weapon.

All of his ingrained training failed him in an instant. Because the part of him, the newly awakened part of him that screamed out with an emotion both foreign and familiar (it would be later, when his name was no longer a series of letters and numbers, that DG-085 would have a name for this sensation: _joy_ ) could not (could _never_ ) bring himself to hurt this man.

And it seemed this man felt the same, because he lowered his weapon, eyes latched onto his. He licked his lips and spoke.

“RS-093.” Once, I was called Simmons.

And DG-085 responded. “DG-085.” Once, I was called Grif.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

CS-081’s story was rather short. He met the Grenadier and the Medic within a single day and it changed his world forever.

He had been advancing with his unit, the regular soldier marching behind the Project line, who served as walking, fighting meat shields so that the people, the humans, could advance.

It didn’t take long for the others like him to fall. Their shields were strong and their armor was heavy and bulky and their shotguns fierce and powerful, but it all could only do so much against the hailstorm of bullets. Really, their batch was a mediocre one, a set deemed not worth much further augmentation and specialized training, but nonetheless capable of dealing out an appropriate amount of death to the Enemy.

_The dirtbags._

Bad. Bad thinking. Focus.

A shot to the shoulder put him down, the last of his unit, though he kept hold of his shotgun as he tumbled to the ground.

“Send in the explosive things!”

CS-081 must of passed out, because when he awoke, several pink blurs were standing around him. Most seemed to be firing shoulder mounted grenade launchers at the Enemy. As he watched, one appeared to run out of ammo. Rather than retreat, the pink clad soldier flicked a few switches on his armor and charged forward. CS-081 felt rather than heard the explosion and the screams of anger and pain from Enemy soldiers.

Oh, he realized. Explosive vests.

Something churned in his gut as he lay there, barely able to move from the fire in his shoulder. He knew that somehow, he was younger than he should be, the memories that the scientists and the soldiers tried so hard to wipe clean still popped up from time to time, and he knew that the man he’d been, however long ago he had lived, had been an old man surrounded by boys, and no matter what he had said, his heart said sang a different tune. It was a strange sensation rising in his chest that made him snag a pink-clad soldier round the ankle, roll him over once he’d tumbled to the ground and flick the switches that disabled his armor bomb. “Stay down,” he commanded.

(This feeling was called protectiveness.)

A similar feeling was buzzing around FD-092, who’d resigned himself to recycling, only to be prevented (saved?) by one of the dead red armored soldiers, who apparently wasn’t dead. The voice was different, but it struck a chord in FD-092, and he decided to go along with the strange sensation.

(The sensation was called trust.)

In the midst of chaos, their departure was rather anticlimactic. CS-081 struggled with his shoulder but both made it to a nearby riverbed, where they shed themselves of their armor and slathered themselves with the tan clay before lying down, ignoring the burning urge to rush back and present themselves to their handlers. Their strength came from something that neither of them understood, some power that their handlers had been unable to stamp out.

(It was the power of individuality.)

When the battle died down, both swiftly began to travel north. They had come from the west and the enemy from the east, so going in a completely opposite direction seemed like a good idea.

DD-068 met them by sheer accident. He’d actually been bandaging a fallen soldier when he’d been brutally thrown aside by an Enemy Heavy. He’d tumbled down a ravine and swiftly was knocked out. When he awoke, he realized that he wasn’t strapped to a chair for his failure, or waking up on a surgical table under the knife of a fellow unit member, as he’d down to so many others. Indeed, as he stared at the wilderness around him, it seemed as though no one was looking for him.

His heart began to pound and he took a step forward. The wild was in front of him. he could…could…

Run.

He took another step. He should report back, he thought, even as he began to shed himself of his armor.

He took another step. The world was open to him.

Another step. He could never be forced to take a life again

He began to briskly walk. Then he jogged, stumbling as he divested himself of his chest plate. As he removed his boots, he began to run.

He nearly lost his head to CS-081’s shotgun.

 


	4. Chapter 4

AC-352 was a Good Soldier.

She had been given high praise, had been wiped only twice in her existence, and finished every assigned objective with neither fuss or failure.

So she was somewhat apprehensive when she was assigned an infiltration mission with someone apparently named MC-396. The serial number alone peaked her interest. She’d never meet anyone besides a fellow clone that wasn’t to be called Sir.

This other clone version—for what else could he be? —was a broad shouldered fellow who dwarfed the guards that prodded him onto the transport vehicle next to her. His closely shaved head was blond, and he had blue eyes that somehow retained a spark of something within.

They drove for hours in silence to the drop-off point, where they were told to maintain radio silence and reminded of standard procedure. Complete the objective, and return within 48 hours to the rendezvous point, or should they fail to, trigger the acid packs in their helmets. Both she and MC-346 nodded, before turning and jogging into the jungle towards the Enemy facility several klicks from their position.

Ac-352 was fast, faster than most were or should be. She could run for hours, barely breaking a sweat. She knew the scientists had done something, because she knew full well that a person shouldn’t be able to outrun a Warthog out of armor. But she could do so with ease, and she wondered if this other clone would slow her down.

It turned out her fears were unfounded. He wasn’t as fast as her, but he could run hard and long, his endurance outstripping even her own.

When they stopped for a brief break, swallowing lukewarm water from disposable pouches, he moved. He snatched up her helmet before she could stop him, fiddling with the inside before moving on to his own. Before she decide whether or not he was a threat to the mission, he spoke.

“Hello. My name is Michael.”

Several thoughts ran though her head. _How do you have a name? Do your handlers know? Why tell me this?_ Instead she said, “What did you do to my helmet?”

“He grinned, teeth gleaming in the shadows of the trees. “I disabled the audio. I figured they won’t be monitoring what happens before we get to the base. And they did say radio silence.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Would you rather I hadn’t?”

She knew she should. But her heart couldn’t bring itself to. Instead she focused on the second, more pressing concern.

“You don’t have a name.”

“You don’t believe that.”

_I am a Good Soldier_. “It doesn’t matter what we believe. We’re not meant to have opinions. We’re meant to follow orders. It’s what we’re made for.”

He went silent, focusing on finishing his water and ration bar. When they both deemed it time to move on, he picked up her helmet again, but paused.

“Why do we have guards?”

Before she could answer he fiddled with the helmet and tossed it to her before manipulating his own and putting it on with practiced ease. Seeing the time for talk was over, she replaced her helm as well and they began to run again.

The run wasn’t strenuous enough to distract her from her thoughts, however. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but think about Mic—MC-396’s words. Guards…guards were supposed to protect people. But she wasn’t being protected, was she? She was a thing, a Project, not a person. She had been continuously told, for as long as she could remember, that she was a tool, less in worth than a dog. And she believed it.

But why did she warrant guards? Tools didn’t need guards. There were several clone versions of her, so it wasn’t like she was an especially valuable.

The mission was completed in near silence, and was considered a success. It was days later, when the pain from the wipe—Why, why had she been wiped? She couldn’t understand. What had she done wrong?—was still pounding in her head, and she was settling down in her capsule that the question, if not the identity of the questioner, came back to her.

Why did she have guards?

Guards protected people, so why weren’t they protecting the base from the Enemy instead of escorting her?

It hit her as the gas began to seep into her capsule. The guards weren’t around to protect her; they were around to protect other people from her.

Her mind raced as the gas began to drag her under. The guards were protecting people from her…because they thought she was dangerous. But why was she considered dangerous?

Tools weren’t dangerous…unless someone handled them in fear.

 

 

She didn’t know how much time had passed before she was paired with MC-396 again, but she knew him the moment she saw him, and she understood, that he was the reason for her last wipe. Something felt familiar about him, and she didn’t know what it was or if her handlers knew she felt this, but she could innately understand that they _feared_ that she felt this.

He looked much the same, except there were more scars. A part of his ear was missing, and his body was wracked with small tremors. She recognized a torture resistance session when she saw it.

Nonetheless, he glanced at her, and a flicker of recognition glinted in his blue eyes. He gave a small smile, unseen by their handlers and guards.

She didn’t know what possessed her, but as she climbed into the convoy truck, in the brief moment when the cabs shadows met the light of the sun, and most everybody was adjusting to the change, she met his eyes and gave a small smile of her own.

As he shoved the Enemy facility guard’s bodies into the underbrush next to her— she appreciated his technique as he had cleanly, quickly, and brutally wrapped two branch like arms around the guards necks and wrenched—she said “I wondered.”

A pause. A huge hand briefly squeezed her own, like the brief constriction of squeezing one’s foot in a well-worn boot. “I wished.”

 

 

The third time she met him, it was on the battlefield. She had been using the battle as cover to infiltrate the outpost, taking out machine gun support and gathering information before slipping out. The Enemy had managed to call in support and by the frantic rushing of her handlers and her allies (? Masters?), she knew understood bombardment was imminent. She was keeping close to her handler, keeping pace behind him, and then she tripped over a truly massive form.

The close-cropped blond hair, enormous frame and familiar armor highlighting made her heart skip. The tattoo at the back of the exposed neck had her rolling him over and frantically dragging his limp frame.

It was difficult, with all the yelling and shaking and thick clay like mud caking her armor, but she managed to get him to a medic transport.

When they finally disembarked, she could only watch as he was placed to the side, the medics simply squeezing biofoam in the bullet holes on his side and giving her a cursory, impatient scan before turning their attention to other soldiers. She stood there and waited until he was finally wheeled into the hospital bay, and then she stood there some more, because she had never anywhere without her guards, and she found herself quite lost without orders.

Eventually a strict looking woman strode by, and stopped at the sight of her.

“What are you standing there for?” she barked. She had short tan hair, and eyes like stained gold, predatory and cruel, giving AC-352 the feeling that she was to be viciously torn apart for no other reason than existing. Her skin looked flawless and pale, her nails short but slightly curved, like claws. Her badge said simply said GREY.

“Well?” she said impatiently. “Where are your handlers? Why are you here?”

AC-352 made her throat work. “I was treated, sir. I am waiting for retrieval.”

Grey made a sound of disgust. “Gah, clones. You lot are nearly useless at times.” She patted AC-352’s shoulder in mock sympathy. “I haven’t finished making you things perfect. It’s not your fault you are still…flawed.” she stepped back, an unpleasant smile fixed on her beautiful face. “Stay here. Guards will be here shortly to retrieve you. It’s sad in a way; a loyal bitch rendered lost without her leash.” She smiled again and walked away.

AC-352 didn’t—couldn’t—understand. What did this woman mean? Loyal? To whom? Or what?

The soldiers came, one shoving a ration bar in her hand before shoving her in the opposite direction from the infirmary doors just as Grey emerged from a side corridor, talking to another man.

“It’s been dependable, but we’ve been seeing abnormalities in his scans. A shame, since the augmentations seem to have taken root wonderfully. But he’s dominated in Reapings, and there are no more of his unit left to fight. Reeducation has failed to take root from what we’ve seen. His reactions are more scripted, he talks to his guards more. Suggestions?”

The man stroked his chin. He didn’t wear a lab coat, instead armored in matte black armor. “The boss gave me authority in this, so I say it’s not worth the risk. Dispose of it.”

A guard’s yawn, briefly blocked out the beginning of Grey’s response, but as AC-352 was escorted down the hallway and around a corner, she caught the tail end of sentence. “—end MC-396 to recycling within the hour.”

Recycling.

They were going to recycle MC-396.

She barely knew it—him, he was a person (no, shut up, shut up)—but she felt—and she never thought she would be contemplating feelings (you don’t have those, stop it)—that she _did_ know him.

(He’s family. Can’t you feel it? (You do not have family. You are a soldier. You are a sacrifice.))

They were going to recycle him.

No. They were going to _kill_ him. Michael.

_My name is Michael J. Caboose. And I. Hate. TAXES!_

“Hey!” Absently, AC-352 turned to stare into the visor of one of her guards. You couldn’t see the eyes through those visors. Was that a blessing?  “Didn’t you hear me?” the woman snapped. “Strip!” She hadn’t noticed that they’d reached her capsule, and she hesitated to remove her armor.

MC-396 was a person. _She_ was a person. They were people amongst monsters.

(Your superiors…)

No.

“I wondered…” she murmured.

“What did you say?” The guards began to raise their weapons at her.

AC-352 didn’t remember moving, but when she came back to herself she realized you  _could_ see the male guard’s eyes even through the visor, once she was close enough. She couldn’t tell what color they were but they were wide and panicked and rolling as fought fruitlessly against her hold in his death throes, attempting and failing to breathe around the cold steel that was his combat knife, now stuck in his own throat.

Eventually he stopped moving, and she watched dispassionately as he slid to the floor, blood marking his process on the steel walls.

Micheal was going to be killed. He was going to die.

_I can't lose another family_.

Not if she could stop it.

She turned and stared contemplatively at the dead guard on the floor to her left, eyeing the black and grey armor and ignoring the awkward angle of the woman’s neck. The size looked about right.

She shoved the last of the ration bar in her mouth and began to strip.


	5. Chapter 5

LT-069 had a cracked blade.

This was a problem. Not a big one, mind you, as his training ensured he’d learned how to use anything with an edge as a weapon long before he’d ever picked up a gun. But it was an annoyance. Because too much stress on the blade would snap it, leaving him with half a weapon, and a much shorter reach.

Sighing, LT-069 shifted and tried to make himself more comfortable. The steady thrum of the engines were powerful enough to send a steady vibration straight up his spine, swiftly numbing his bottom. He twitched unperceptively; his scar itched and he couldn’t reach it. Another annoyance.

The barking order came through and a rough hand gripped his shoulder, roughly pulling him to his feet and shoving him and another Project towards the Pelican door. Drop in five…four…three…

BOOM.

The craft violently bucked, sending LT-069 and others sprawling. One unfortunate man was slammed into the ceiling and fell on two of his fellow. The superior officer was screaming orders and demands, even as he struggled to his feet. Another violent wrench and the scream of forcefully punctured metal disguised the sound of the officer dying, shrapnel from gaping bulkhead tearing him and about three other men to pieces. One landed on LT-069, nearly crushing him; he quickly shoved the dead man off of him and scrambled to his feet, nearly tumbling again due to the blood on the floor.

They must have gotten in range, as the Pelican doors opened, admitting a hurricane of bullets. The rain poured down in streams, but the sound was mostly muffled by the thick trees of the jungle and the roar of guns. LT-069 jumped out, nearly slipping again on the mud, and preventing him from meeting the same fate as the man behind him, whose shields flared only once before he was disintegrated.

The tree echoed with the howls of the dying as LT-069 activated his camouflage, chucked a few grenades into Enemy lines, and slipped through the dust cloud, the gunfire and screams further masking his already near-silent approach. He slipped and slid into a trench, a lone Enemy soldier dying with a gasp as her throat was slit, and made his way through Enemy lines, discreet stabs in the right places, ending life after life.

It was that lifeblood that gave him away, an Enemy yelping in confused dismay at the gleam of blood on an invisible knife, emerging from his comrades neck as through the essence had sought deliberate escape from it’s fleshy confines. LT-069’s training slipped as he uttered an oath, dodging the soldier’s terrified gunfire by ducking behind the body of the man’s already dead, falling body. A knife to the throat stopped the man’s startled shooting, but it was too late. A few bullets flared his shields, attracting attention from the dead man, to the no-longer-invisible one.

Pretenses of subtlety gone, LT-069 lunged into the enemy lines, slashing and hacking, dodging between gunfire. One of the first things he’d learned was not how to cut bullets in half, but how to deflect them, much to his handler’s astonishment. The method was more theoretical, examined in a few cases through his flash training, but he’d retained it outside his tube, and learned to utilize it in active combat. He couldn’t simply stand still and deflect them, but he’d learned how to do it when it mattered.

And here, amongst the rain and blood and screaming? It mattered.

The familiar whistling sound split the air, and LT-069 didn’t think before hurling himself backwards. The tank shell impacting the ground several yards in front of him aided in his airborne retreat throwing him bodily into the trench sides and showing him in mud and sand.

_You can’t pick up chicks in a tank_.

He shook his head, wiping his visor as he drew himself back up, hoping the random sounds and smells and memories could be wiped away as well, without the use of the Chair. It would make it so much easier.

He looked around for his weapon, and only just managed to pull it free from the mud when an Enemy medic jumped into the trench looking for survivors.

Both of them froze.

Instinct, implanted by technology and reinforced by pain, urged him to gut the man like a fish _immediately_.

Something else, something unexplainable, whispering from the depth of his very cells, told him no.

(Later he would have a name for this sensation: honor.)

He backed away, turning away from the man, and he heard the medic hurry away to the nearest screaming Enemy soldier. The trench was a mess of blood and gore mixed with mud and ash. It was time to get out of here.

Seized a root above him and hefted himself out of the trench, already looking for his commander amongst the yelling, shouting soldiers. He took a moment to marvel the sensation of being his own little bubble. It was almost peaceful.

Then there was pain.

He turned his head, frowning at the combat knife buried in his side. He followed its path, tracing the trajectory to the wide-eyed Enemy soldier still frozen in a throwing position, like he couldn’t believe he’d hit his mark. LT-069 felt something like pity as he gazed into the man’s terrified eyes, eyes so light a hazel, they were practically yellow. Just like…

_Junior is awesome!_

He could shoot. He could throw his wrist knife. He could rush over despite the pain and end the boy’s life.

But he was tired. And he could never hurt…

Junior?

Where was his son?

LT-069 fell.


	6. Chapter 6

When the explosions started, DG-085 was already in the midst of his escape. The week had passed, and he’d found the Reaping had ignited a flame inside of him that he never thought he’d had, and now he threw himself with increased vigor into his exercises. The scientists thought it was because he’d learned from his mistakes, and in a way they were right. He had no intention to go to another Reaping, and possible be recycled in one, because if he did, then he’d never get to see RS—Simmons. He yearned to see the other man’s face, and he knew that he couldn’t escape, not so long as Simmons was trapped here. They’d escape together or not at all.

So he’d taken to experimenting. In the periods before he was knocked out for the night, or before the guards came with his armor, he’d begun straining ever so slightly against the restraints. Not trying to force himself free through brute strength, but instead easing the tightness, stretching the relatively thin metal so it began to loosen ever so slightly. And it worked. The shackles were automatic, and over the week, there was a slight hiccup as the slightly bending metal didn’t lock itself as tightly.

He also discovered something interesting regarding the sleeping gas. On a hunch, he’d taken a huge breath before the gas started and held it. The gas filled the chamber for exactly forty seconds. It tickled his nose, and had threated to make him release his air but he’d held as the mist filled his capsule, then stopped. A fan began to whir, and fresh air began to pump into the chamber, as the mist was simultaneously sucked out. By the time DG-085 had cautiously released his stale breath, the air was clean and cool, all within a minute and 10 seconds. He supposed the gas was sucked out once a unit was asleep, so whoever opened the pod in a hurry was not smacked in the face with a wave of knockout gas. Nevertheless, the first unforced sleep DG-085 ever had was undoubtedly the best one in his entire existence.

It was also within this week that he determined that the door was actually not that strong. Which was a given, especially considering that if his own treatment was any indication, nothing more than basic health was worth consideration. It made even more sense, considering the Reaping’s and Reeducation. The ones that posed a danger were generally made less dangerous or eliminated from the equation entirely. And in that sense, DG-085’s superiors (captors? masters?) were arrogant; it would be their downfall.

So when he was locked in one night, as the door swung shut slowly, the moment he caught the glimpse as his bored guards turned away from the pod, he swung his bare legs up and his feet against the exit, feeling the slight strain as the door began to push against him. The door made a slight whir of protest as it was forcefully slowed, and by the time DG removed his feet, he was pleased to see that the door, though closed, was not flush. As the gas flooded the room and he held his breathe, he strained his arms, feeling the weakened metal give way with a _snap!_

“You hear something?”

If DG knew the concept of face-palming, he would have undoubtedly proceeded to initiate the action.

“Nah.” As the fresh, clean air began to diffuse the knockout gas, someone banged on his pod. _Bang, bang!_ “Just probably this one having a bad dream.” DG carefully removed the codpiece encasing his genitals. “It’s out like a light.” _Bang, ba-!_

_BANG!_

DG exploded from his capsule, knocking over one of the startled guards. Almost simultaneously, a dull _boom_ sounded in the distance, and the floor shivered.

The second guard cried out in shock, struggling to bring his weapon around, but it was too late. DG was not the best in hand to hand, but his reflexes far outstripped this guard, and he was much stronger. His clenched fist impacted with the man’s helmet, cracking the visor and denting the side. The man stumbled and nearly fell, but DG smoothly snagged his breastplate and pulled him close, seizing his pistol, and emptying three round in the guards chin before releasing the now dying man.

“You son of a bitch!” The first guard, the one who had been knocked to the ground, had scrambled to his feet and begun to wildly fire in DG’s direction. DG almost felt sorry for him as he simply dropped and kicked the man’s ankle, sending him sprawling and shooting wildly at the ceiling. Impressively enough, he kept hold of his assault rifle even upon falling, but it meant nothing if he wasn’t fast enough, and he certainly wasn’t. DG simply sidestepped around his immediate line of sight, and shot him twice in the visor.

Another explosion sounded. The guard’s radios were screaming.

“Shit! I need backup in the hanger!”

“What going on!”

“Escape in progress!”

_Simmons_. Had to be.

“Negative! Escape in progress! Divert forces to the medbay ASAP!”

“Code black in the medbay!”

“It a massa—shit!”

“ARGHH!”

Two escapes at the same time. DG began to strip down the guards. Time to make it three.

 

MC-396 tried to block out the sounds of the doctors discussing his body, tried to ignore the ticklish jabbing of the marker drawing surgery lines over his body. He understood upon waking up completely naked what was happening. It was the secret fear of every unit: recycling.

Recycling was explained in the flash training, and he remembered the monotone voice that had filled his ears, and the images that had showed before his eyes. The process of recycling, the voice had explained, was to ensure that each unit continued to serve beyond their combat efficiency. Each unit’s body was thoroughly dissected and vital resources (blood, organs, and bone marrow) were taken, catalogued, and stored to serve the good of Chorus. Of course, the voice patiently explained, the process would be painful; anesthesia was a resource too valuable to waste on mere clones. The pain and sacrifice was expected for the greater good.

MC did not believe it. Rather he could not believe it. Why teach them, shelter them, clothe them, if they were nothing but nuisances, if they were worthless?

What was the point?

He supposed it didn’t matter, as the straps were double-checked and the gag was secured. He was about to die. It would be painful, it would be long, and it wouldn’t be fair.

The scalpel, and the hand holding it, took careful aim, then plunged.

Into the surgeon’s eye.

The angle that MC was secured at made it impossible to move his head, and so all his roving eyes were able to comprehend was flashes of black armor, and white lab coat, and flashes of dark red blood.

And of course there was the screaming, the yells and cries for help and security and God and mercy. The all too quick _rat-tat-tat_ of assault rifles silenced abruptly, the choked gasp of pain and crunch of breaking bone.

Then silence. As silent as it could be with the blaring of alarms in the depths of the base.

The straps loosened and he could move, and did, turning and ignoring the pain in his side to gaze into green eyes and a cocksure smirk.

A hand in security armor extended. “You wish?”

MC knew about crying. He had seen and experienced his fair share of tears during training, during torture. But it wasn’t until that moment, grasping the hand of a woman he barely knew, yet knew all too well, surrounded by shattered glass and scattered tools and people breathing their last in pools of blood on the floor around him, that he found out one could cry tears of joy.

 

RS-093 had never felt more at peace than he did now. it had taken less than a week to realize that his hacking simulations were on a closed circuit—that is, his results, the numbers that determined whether he continued to live or was sent to die was sent across the same channel. There was no manual transfer of information. And that was beyond dangerous. For them.

Because when information traveled across a channel, no matter what one may say, that channel could be traveled two ways. Computers handled information, information was a river, and a river could be traveled in either direction. It may be all but impossible, yes, but there still remained that sliver of possibility.

So in this case, when he had heard the whispered murmur of an aid, obviously new and perturbed by RS’s skill at demolishing the practice firewalls, and the small teams of RS series hackers constructing, checking and strengthening, speaking lowly to a superior about the chance of the clones gaining control of the system. The superior scoffed and reassured the man that the clones were all but mindless regarding anything but whatever task they were given, and if any malfunctioned, he know. The abnormal and erratic behavior would give them away, and the security team would take care of the rest.

Malfunctioned. Like computers.

But he was no mere tool. Not anymore. Maybe, it hadn’t been for the pit, for _him_ — _Grif_ —then he might have lived the rest of what could arguably be called a life as a nothing more than a fleshy drone. But now—now he’d awoken. He was no mere tool any longer.

That is why he’d taken the opportunity to access the security system in the guise of giving it the normal weekly check. That is why he’d linked the cameras in the security room to the turret targeting system and proceeded to not react as the turrets he’d taken command of mowed down everyone in the room.

He’d then linked the system commands to a dead guards datapad, then linked a secondary link to his eye, picked up the guards assault rifle and suppresser and used his technical knowhow to make his way to the hanger, avoiding patrols with his heads up given by the his control of the bases cameras, and ending anyone who he couldn’t.

He’d slipped in the hanger control room, calmly and disabled the alarms and cameras, sealed the doors, and then proceeded to execute everyone in the room. Then he’d sealed the hanger doors and had the turrets turn on everyone there, even a few vehicles.

He felt nothing for them. He didn’t know the concept of guilt except in memories that weren’t his, and anyway, they had wanted a machine, a skin-wrapped weapon. He would not waste his awakening humanity on slave-masters. He would save it for his freedom. He would save it for Grif.

Which, he noted with a smile, probably wouldn’t take long. When he’d located the sub-level when the DG units were created and stored ( _so many_ ), he had been pleased to see a security guard walking out of his Grif’s chamber. Especially since this guard walked with a predatory-like gait despite his larger than normal size. Especially since the guard appeared to have a dark stain around his color, and left faint bloody footprints.

And especially since guards always walked around in pairs.

He knew. He just knew who it was.

And imagine his surprise when the radio exploded in chatter about one, and then two escapees tearing a bloody path in and then out of the medbay. He understood, who, or rather what, was the culprit. It wasn’t until some panicked guard mentioned a woman, that his disjointed memories gave him the probable identity of one of the other escapees.

RS—no Richard, smiled. It was not a pleasant one. _Well_ , he thought _, time to bring the family back together_.

 


	7. Chapter 7

CS-081 had absolutely no qualms about looting the bodies of the Enemy and the Masters. One group he’d been killing not so long ago; the other had held treated him like a dog. He had been trained to kill one, and had learned the concept of hate just so he could direct it at the latter.

Still, it was a nasty business, patting down bloody bodies for their valuables, trying to ignore glassy eyes, ruptured innards and puddles of urine. FD-092 had already thrown up once.

CS pried a man’s chest plate off, ignoring the stump where his arm used to be, and used a borrowed (read: scavenged) combat knife to slit the under armor. Underneath lay a glimmer of gold.

 _Excellent_.

He ripped the chain free, stuffing it in a free pocket. He’d put it in the small pile he’d begun building in the hallowed out factory that was serving as their hideout. Hopefully he’d soon gather enough and could create a fire hot enough to begin melting the pieces down.

He wasn’t sure if the boys had begun to think about it, but CS knew that they had to get off the planet somehow. He was hoping that his inherited and ingrained knowledge of mercenaries would allow him to find a semi-decent one. Semi-decent meaning that they played both sides, or at the least had no particular loyalty to any faction, and didn’t mind making some cash on the side. Whether credits changed or not, gold always had some form of value.

“Sarge!” Medic’s voice traveled across the lake of corpses to reach him. Both boys had begun to call him that, and he honestly didn’t know how he felt about it. On one hand, it felt good to have a name that felt familiar and wasn’t a series of tattooed numbers and letters. On the other hand, it was the name of a dead man, and while it would be an honor to wear that man’s callsign, CS himself had not reached that point, that level where he could wear the name with pride.

It seemed that the boys had the same idea. FD-093 had begun to call himself Delano, while DD-068 had dithered between “Frank” and “DuFrense” before quietly accepting Delano’s suggestion of Medic. The same, and yet not.

“you should probably see this!” Medic sounded increasingly urgent, so CS tore himself away from the dead man and began to quickly pick his way over scattered guns, bloody bodies, and thick upturned mud, waving away the clouds of flies and mosquitos that mistook him for part of their feast. Twenty feet away, a large cat-like creature darted out of the underbrush, grabbed a dismembered foot in it’s serrated teeth, and darted back to it’s home in the darkness. The place where they were scavenging was a jungle clearing that had been abruptly widened and wrecked by the combination of gunfire, explosives and man-made machines, and a series of animals that had been forcefully evicted ffrom their dens and trees and burrows were staring to creep back.

Medic and Delano were lingering by man-made trench with bodies leaning in and out of it. Medic was crouched over a body, and as CS approached he moved slightly to let him see the figures face.

The man’s black helmet had been removed. He had an angular face and dark skin, with a collage of scars adorning the man’s tense face. His dark hair was closely cropped in a standard military style, and his matte black armor was standard issue, but heavily used.  A hole the size of a child’s fist had been burned into his side, and the opening was slick with blood. A short, thin blade has lying several feet away, and it seemed medic had divested him of a second similar blade and numerous combat knifes, as well as his sidearm and rifle. Despite the unusual set of weaponry, CS saw nothing worth his attention.

And then Medic gently turned the man on his side and CS felt the breath get knocked out of his body. There on the man’s neck was a familiar looking tattoo and bar code.

  _LT-069._

A project. A clone. Just like them.

His first instinct was to unload a round right into the man’s back. He knew how dangerous his kind could be. Arrogant as it sounded, he knew he could wipe the floor with a squadron of ordinary soldiers. Even Delano, as innocent as he could look and sound, could destroy a small group with a smile on his face. They had been bred for war, for destruction, and though they were no longer tools of their master’s whims, who’s to say that this LT-069 character didn’t?

And, pragmatically, traveling with another person, a wounded one at that, was dangerous. It was hard enough for the three of them to maneuver and gather supplies, while avoiding their old master’s dogs, the Enemy they had been thrown against, and whatever other group was on Chorus.

The fact of the matter was that they had little, if any, sort of edge. There was little information they could gather without more time, and significant reconnaissance; they had little in the ways of supplies. They were being hunted from all sides, by shadowy assailants, and all they could really do for know was hide in a dark corner and hope none of their foes had a flashlight.

A pained moan broke through his thoughts, as did the faint sounds of Pelican engines in the distance. Decision time.

Medic was already cleaning the wound, and Delano was looking at him with wide chocolate eyes, imploring him. “Sarge?”

CS-081 gave a faint groan of defeat. “I’ll grab his head; Medic, get his legs. Delano, lead us. You can worn us of any bad steps.” There was still quite a few mines on the battlefield after all, and Delano was the explosives expert.

By the time the Pelican arrived to circle the battlefield, there was nothing in sight but the dead and dying.


	8. Chapter 8

In the future, when she had a name, a home, a family, and some peace, AC-352 would be asked about her greatest memories. And when asked, she would recount the first memory she would ever be able to label as “fun”.

The memory, of course, being the glorious sight of a security guard commander being blasted apart by a M45G Tactical Shotgun.

The man’s partner released a squawk of alarm at his companion’s violent demise. The sound of running footsteps seem to give him courage, and he visibly steeled himself and swung his weapon up to aim at AC, before blanching in alarm as she dropped down to give the truly massive form of MC-396 a clear shot with his assault rifle. Realizing that the approaching back-up would do him no good, the man still fruitlessly attempted to retreat. A bark of the rifle over AC’s head acted as a party horn to the bloody confetti bursting from the man’s neck and shoulders.

The dying man fell and nearly tripped one of the four of his comrades arriving on the scene. The resulting stumbled rippled through the group as they tried not to fall or slip over the blood-slicked hallway tiles. By the time they had regained their bearings it was too late. AC was already in their range, and her pilfered shotgun roared in glee, rendering one man’s torso into raw meat and shredded steel and ceramic. The sheer force of a small-scale explosive impacting his chest sent him flying back into one of his fellows.

Before either of them hit the ground, AC was moving. Unable to get her barrel around in time, she simply smashed the butt into another man’s helmet. The man, unable to block due to MC’s covering fire, went down hard, and AC followed him down, leaving the last woman open to MC’s rushing charge. The man of nearly seven feet, who easily weighed three-hundred and could bitch-slap a train off it’s tracks without a sweat, smashed into her and ran her over, killing her before he’d even realized or noticed. Still, he noticed the demise much faster than the last guard, who’d freed himself from the weight of his friend, could even begin to react. The man was dead before he could leave the ground.

MC let the his tense muscles ease and calmly waited, guarding the corridor as AC strangled the guard she straddled with the barrel of her shotgun. Eventually, the flailing stopped and AC stood, before abruptly stooping and prying the dead man’s shoulder guard from their magnetic holdings.

“Here, these should fit you.”

MC gratefully accepted. Calling what he was currently wearing “armor” was being generous. His bulk was not something that was a dime a dozen, and for all of the “one-size-fits-all” thing going on with the standard issue body suits, some people just didn’t fit in the “all” category. His body suit had been scavenged from a man who was wider in the gut than anything, and who’d had his uniform enough to stretch it out, meaning it was still tight on Michael, more so in the shoulders, but also slightly loose around the ribs. His gauntlets had to be scavenged from two different people, since the first choice had had one of his arms ripped off by the escaping duo, and neither of them could find it once he was dead. His boots were tight and uncomfortable, his helm was a too tight around the ears, and his chest plate didn’t cover him completely. The only thing that did fit comfortably were his recently purloined pauldrons.

As he adjusted his new gear, MC had a bemused smirk on his face, as if the situation was not an violent escape attempt and instead was simply a another training simulation. AC could relate; if it weren’t for the scent of blood and feces, she’d have thought this was some test to root out disobedient units. Either way, she would never have to do another simulation again. Either she’d escape to freedom, or she’d fail. And should they fail…

She fingered a “borrowed” pistol. She was a crack shot, and there were more than enough bullets for two people.

Speaking of which…

“Hey, which way is the exit?”          

MC gave her a look of confusion. “I was following you.”

A series of genetic manipulation and cellular memories gave provided her the answer for her emotional turmoil and frustration.

“Fuck.”

MC nodded grimly. Then frowned. “What is that?”

“What?”

“Fuck. How do we get one?”

“I think the idea is that we don’t give one instead.”

“Hmm. Do you think we’re the only ones trying to escape?”

“Well…yes. Why do you ask?”

MC—No, _Michael_ pointed. “I think someone’s trying to give us a hint.”

AC turned to follow his finger. On a holo-board usually programmed to show daily announcements was a message: Brother. Sister. Join me in freedom. Follow the arrows.

The duo stared at the flashing arrow below the message for a moment. “A bit melodramatic, isn’t he?” AC finally broke the silence.

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Neither do I, to be honest.”

 

LT-069 went from a pained sleep to painfully wide awake in the span of a few breathes. There was the familiar sensation of restraints about his limbs, but there were differences that immediately put him on guard. Unlike the steel restraints in his pod or the leather ones on the infirmary gurneys, this were course and uneven. The surface he was lying on was too rough to be a gurney; it was hard, narrow, and rough, almost as if—

LT-069 opened his eyes.

Immediately his suspicions were confirmed. This was not the thick plastic lining of his pod, nor was it the featureless white of the infirmary. The room he was in had a highly vaulted ceiling, though calling it that was debatable. Streams of amber sunlight sliced down though the liberal amount of holes. the beams above were tarnished with rust and soot. Some were warped and bent. Had there been an explosion?

He painfully craned his neck as far as possible to see more, but the restraints prevented him from seeing more than halfway down any wall. Each was made of brick, but the one on his left was all but destroyed and appeared to be leading to another room in the building. The other walls were also stained in soot as well as thick wines and mold in the corners. Despite their apparent retaining of their structure, the walls didn’t look like they could withstand a strong wind, let alone an attacking force.

Speaking of forces…where were his? The last thing he remembered…

_Yellow eyes._

_Teal skin._

_Junior._

_Son._

_Father._

_Husband._

_Washington._

_Steel armor._

_Yellow highlights._

“Easy there. Calm down. Calm down.”

The unfamiliar voice carried with it a certain tone that was quite unlike the nasty glares and blows and barking rage of his superiors. It was methodical, calm, almost absent in presence. It was if the speaker was only attempting to comfort in order to prevent any future unnecessary strain.

A figure emerged at the edge of LT-069’s vision. He was slim, with inky hair pale skin. His eyes were calm, but alert, flitting over his bound form with analyzing eyes. He tutted and poked a gloved finger at LT’s side. Immediately, the sensation of pain sharpened and focused on that spot. It was if he’d suddenly realized he was on fire, and the flames he was dimly aware of had become tired of his inattention and let themselves be felt.

“You’ll, ah, be feeling some moderate to severe pain for the next few months. Maybe. If you’re as much like us as I think you are, it’ll probably only be a couple of weeks, at most.” The man knelt out of sight to get a better look at the wound. “Really, the only reason it will take that long is because I had to do my best to widen some lines; the knife was rusty; a miracle it flew straight enough to get to you. The person who threw must have had a hell of an arm. Still, the serrated edges shredded flesh on impact and removal and the poor maintenance meant quite of bit of it decided to stay inside, and it would be a shame for you to survive the Colonel’s questioning only to die to toxicosis. Course there was a fair amount of unnecessary damage. The tools at my disposal…well, calling them crude would be a compliment.”

LT-069 was torn between burning curiosity and the ingrained instinct to not speak without expressed permission. The man saw his dilemma and took pity on him. “Here,” he said reaching over into the unseen and raising a canteen into LT’s line of sight. “Drink, and I will cover the basics.”

LT didn’t realize how thirsty he was until the lukewarm water touched his lips. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever tasted.

As he slowly fed LT dribbles of water, the man began to respond to his unasked questions. “You are in neither the Enemy’s nor our former Superiors custody. We are in an abandoned town, one that appears to have victim to a bombing, and are currently hiding from both factions. Both I and my companions are like yourself: Units, people born in tanks for an unknown goal of the Superiors. I was once known as DD-068, though I have accepted the name ‘Medic’. We found you near the jungle outskirts post-battle and brought you here. You are currently restrained for your safety as much as ours. Our leader doesn’t actually have a military rank, we simply have chosen to call him that. Any other questions?”

LT-069 let the water slowly ease his throat before he attempted to speak. “What are you going to do? After all this, I mean?”

“That’s none of you concern,” a voice interrupted. There were footsteps above LT-069’s head before another man appeared on his uninjured side. He was moderately muscled, with a buzz cut and a thick jaw. The barest patches of stubble were visible, and his voice was commanding enough to make LT want to stand at attention despite the near agonizing pain. It was hard to believe that a man like this could be one of them.

Still, his appearance drove a dagger of disappointment into his heart. Any other day he would have ignored the feeling, but he was far from the Chair now, and he allowed the forbidden name to enter his thoughts without abandon.

 _Washington_.

And others, flooding in, as he lay there, dismantling his own mental barriers at a rather inopportune time.

_Junior._

_Caboose._

_Carolina._

_Washington._

_Simmons._

_Griff._

_Donut._

_Doc._

_Washington._

_Sarge._

_Wash._

_Wash._

_Washington_

_WashingtonWashWashingtonWashingtonWashingtonWashWashWashWashington._

_Friend._

_Lover._

_Husband._

_Gone._

“Hmmm.”

LT-069—no, no more, he was Lavernius, he _chose_ Lavernius—looked up at the blurry form of a Sarge that was far too young—and when had he began to cry? He didn’t even know he could cry. He didn’t even know about the existence of crying until this exact moment—and watched the stern face (Colonel, the man was a colonel now. Then. Had been.)crack into a smirk. “Guess I can avoid the questioning. I see that face in the mirror. You’re free, for now. Your thoughts are your own, brother.” He reach out and firmly grasped Lavernius’ shoulder. “I threw a fit when we brought you here, but I guess I’d have regretted it. They insist on bringing back dead men; guess we should do it right and bring the family back together.”

Lavernius gave a shaky smile, an unfamiliar movement that felt incredibly uncomfortable, but oh so right. “We still dirtbags to you?”

“But of course.”

“Guys!” a voice cried from within the bowels of the building, growing closer.

 _Donut_.

Medic saw his face. “He’s Delano, now.”

A fragment of memory. “Is he naked?”

“Why would you--?” Medic broke off as a similar memory apparently was dredged up in his mind.  “Oh.” His voice changed slightly, becoming…huskier? “ _Oohhh_.”

“Guys!” A skidding of footsteps. “Colonel, I’ve managed to intercept communications! And you’ll never—oh you’re awake!”

“Focus, son!” Colonel snapped.

“Oh, right! I think this whole running away thing has become a trend!”

Lavernius strained his still restrained neck, barely managing to catch a glimpse of pink (“ _It’s light-red!_ ”). “What makes you say that?”

Do- _Delano’s_ voice became uncharacteristically serious. "Because from the snatches of communication I’ve managed to catch, I’ve heard about Units coming through the Gate. And Colonel? They have a ship.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figuring our Caboose’s strength is one the hardest, most unnecessary things I’ve ever attempted to do while writing. I didn’t want numbers so much as an estimate, but even that is confusing. For example, lore-wise there is the infamous tank flip in all Halo games. Master Chief does this easily, as does Tex and canon-Caboose. The average British modern tank weighs about sixty tons. All have armor, but only Master Chief has actual power armor. In the RVB verse, none of the Reds, Blues, or Freelancers are biologically enhanced. Given, it seems lore-wise that all soldiers in the UNSC should get a minor upgrade (welcome to the future, amiright?), but those of the Spartan’s seem unique. None of the BGC are Spartans, so those like Tex and Caboose, and to a lesser extent, Carolina, are unique.
> 
> This is where my estimates began to hit a snag. Tex can flip a sixty ton tank easily in what I’m assuming was her human body, but can’t lift Andy in her robot one. But Caboose can. And in season ten we see her in her robot body catch, lift, and throw a shipping container, with some effort mind you. The average twenty-foot shipping container can weigh up to almost 35 tons. This seems to indicate that her robot body is…weaker? If we assume that she can only flip and not lift the tank, she it seems she can easily lift at least 45 tons as a human in armor. So how heavy is Andy? At one point Caboose drops Andy, but we hear a thud, not anything to suggest the earth cratered, or anything. Considering his trouble with it, I’m assuming Andy weighs anywhere between 60 to 65 tons. Which okay, suspension meet disbelief, but okay.
> 
> BUT, BUT then Caboose can suddenly shrug off gravity increasing by ten, and it throws everything out of balance. Caboose should be much stronger than he shows. Seriously, someone give me a number. How much can Caboose lift? I tried doing math and broke a pencil in frustration.


	9. Chapter 9

There were many names that defined a man. He preferred to keep it simple. His subordinates called him Sir. His associates called him the Director.

Long ago, he had been a man who had adopted the identity in order to avoid his past. He married a hero, who died, and promptly held his daughter up to a standard that did not exist, disapproving of her apparent shortcomings.

Ironically, it wasn’t until the end of his life, as he hid away in the darkness, reeking of his own despair, and anguish, bathed in the light of his past and bent in the weight of his mistakes, that he saw what his daughter had become. A woman fervent in her anger and desire for revenge, just as tainted by the regrets and pain, just like her sire.

There was one moment, one sensation that separated the two in that moment, in that crumbling facility, so long ago, on a world halfway across the universe.

Guilt.

The father felt no guilt over what he had done. He felt no guilt over torturing a sentient creation, his son in all but blood. He felt no guilt in orchestrating a mass murder in order to hide an agent in plain sight. He felt no guilt turning his loyal soldiers into nothing more than tools. He felt no guilt when hundreds who were just trying to do the right thing were imprisoned due to his actions.

In the end, he only felt the pain of failing a woman long dead.

The daughter, however…she felt guilt.

She felt guilty for the comrades who died, abandoned seemingly do to her greed. She felt guilt, for not seeing the monster her sire had become. She felt guilt for dragging a bunch of men who just wanted to be left alone in a world that did not want them halfway across the world for her vindication. She felt guilty for every time she had saluted, unthinkingly, uncaringly, all in the name of duty. She felt guilty that she got to retire and enjoy life when so many others didn’t.

She felt so much guilt.

And in the end, that guilt gave her the ability to look upon the tormented form of her ~~father~~ (no, her father had died to Covenant, long ago) superior and see not a monster, but a sad, sad man who had desired power, who had tasted power, and lost it all.

It was guilt that allowed her to hand her pistol to that creature, turn and face the light, and think, _there is much to do_.

It was guilt that allowed her to become a hero.

What? Did you think heroes were born? Did you think they woke up and decided to do great deeds out of some selfless desire?

No, don’t be ridiculous.

The hero is a ball of misery, guilt, regret, insanity, torment, and the undying desire to atone, held in place by spandex.

Look at Spider-man, Batman, Iron Man, Daredevil. Do you think they would don their tights if not for the illogical feeling of guilt?

Did Peter Parker or Bruce Wayne fire the shots that killed their loved ones? No, of course not.

Was it Tony Stark’s fault he inherited a legacy at far too young an age, teetering alone at the top of a tower, with supports made of pyrite? Hardly.

Should young Matt Murdock be held responsible for his father’s pride? I should think not.

But guilt, tells them, whisper insidiously in their ears, _all your fault_.

So look at the past and tell me about this colorful group of idiots: look at the old man who outlived his friends, his comrades, and his superiors in brutal war against genocidal beasts. Look at Hawaiian who was so tired, after taking care of a sibling for too long, too early. Look at the geek, the nerd, whose intelligence made his father feel inferior, so there was clearly something wrong with the son, not his sire. Look at the rookie, who lost too much, who nearly died, and so vowed to live with the finer things and love with all his heart.

Look at the doctor who failed, and thus sought to never be proactive, lest he hurt again.

Look at the womanizer, he only emulated those who came before him, and spent a life torn between the guilt of being as absent as his father, and relief that his children were so much better off away from his influence. Look at the fool, who cried at night, because he couldn’t remember his family’s names, and far too often forgot his own, whose own mind betrayed him. Look at the daughter with the bloody past, trying scrape the dried blood from her ledger. Look at the rifleman, who followed the daughter, and at the first opportunity, became the very monster he accursed other of being, to regain a life he never had.

Now look at these people. Add weapons, quips, and a healthy dash of sexual tension.

Sounds like a hero’s story, doesn’t it?

Or at the very least something better than that Fantastic Four reboot.

 

There were many names that defined a man. He preferred to keep it simple. His subordinates called him Sir.

His associates called him a name drawn from infamy. They called him the Director.

And as his associates came at him with rapid-fire concerns regarding several escapes and unaccounted bodies and countless deaths of personal, as he greenlighted the start of a project he amusingly named Recovery One, as he watch the lights focus and needles descend and the doctors surround the gagged, bound, writhing form of a unit known as DW-112, the Director, a man who only looked towards the wide expanse of the future only smiled.

“Sounds like the beginning of a hero’s story. Let’s give them a pen.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because, seriously, the Directors an ass. 
> 
> No dialogue this chapter, not really. Wanted to give you a bit of a glimpse into the new Director's thought process, especially since I've been very vague about the mysterious shadow army making this new generation(?) of Reds and Blues.
> 
> BTW, Is anyone else happy they didn't try to resurrect Church in season 15?
> 
> Also wrote this because of sleeping, because if i have to hear one more rant about how hot Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen are together from my friend...Not a fan. Jonsa for life!


	10. Chapter 10

To understand the Gates, one had to understand the Insurrectionist Cold War, as it was named by the UNSC. Or simply the Rebellion, by, well, the Rebels.

It was also known as the Outskirt FUBAR, the Good Fight, the Upheaval, the Nishum’s Turmoil, the Rumble in the Outer Jungle, and the Colonial Civil Rights Movement.

Regardless what one was to call it, the conflicts began with a small planet.

Eighty-one years ago, a group of colorful failures (including two soldiers that weren’t really failures, but kinda were) crash landed on a small planet in whose inhabitants were wholeheartedly committing fratricide. Granted, there was considerable manipulation from a power-hungry corporation, but still, the planet’s opposing factions got together as well as a sex addict did with a unicorn.

But, like some sort of story, against all odds, against countless foes, outmatched and outgunned, the heroes rallied the planet’s native together and pushed back against bloodthirsty machinations of an evil CEO.

The planet was freed, united, and the people of Chorus, as the world was known as, tearfully bade their multicolored heroes’ farewell and looked towards the bright future.

Everything changed when the UNSC attacked.

Well, not attacked so much as glided in with humanitarian aid.

Chorus accepted the help. What they wouldn’t accept was the UNSC’s attempt to assert control. Having been seemingly forgotten and abandoned by the government organization, Chorus had no intention of handing the reins of the freedom they themselves had _just_ regained over to another.

The UNSC was upset, but legally, there wasn’t much they could do. The government had written the colony off as collateral, had failed to aid them when previously requested. The colony was not threatening the body. While trade was certainly anticipated between the two governments, by and by the people of Chorus simply wanted to be left alone. Grudgingly, the UNSC let them be.

The problem was that there were other planets, those even farther away from the Core than Chorus. And while not all those planets had broken out in civil war, they still suffered. Harsh weather, limited resources, outbreaks, pirate attacks. Their cries of help went unheeded by the UNSC, and while those planets tended to overcome and adapt and grow, the feelings of abandonment and betrayal still remained.

The Chorus debacle galvanized the UNSC into looking into those various planets and colonies far too late. While Chorus had been deliberately isolated and trapped, others had not. There was communication and trade and agreements, and none of them appreciated the UNSC baring down on them with false concern. In total, within half a decade of the Chorus Civil War, seventeen colonies, excluding Chorus, had been “rediscovered” and each and every one of them refused to fall under UNSC jurisdiction.

So while the UNSC was stopped legally, there was nothing stopping them _illegally_.

It became a common practice to slip a UNSC agent onto a colony. That agent would report back, and sometimes, when the opportunity presented itself, make things a bit more…difficult for the colonists. Machines would mysteriously break. Supplies would come up short. Wildlife would slip into food stores.

And woe to the fool who dared say that the rogue colonies should form their own interplanetary government. Far too often, that person would “accidently” be stung by some poisonous creature that had crawled in their bed, or their brakes would fail _right_ as they were doing a hairpin turn on a mountainous road.

Sometimes, pirates would suddenly and anonymously receive info regarding a town or cities patrol, or the code to a vault, and diagrams of a vault. One time slavers, for of course they still existed got wind of a children’s field trip to the woods of one colony. They of course took advantage.

The tension between the colonies and the UNSC skyrocketed over the next decade. The colonies _knew_ the UNSC were behind this espionage, but couldn’t prove it.

That is, until the UNSC’s luck ran out.

One pirate captain got greedy. She had gained a reputation for being quick and being stealthy, and getting out of colony space with little trace and a cargo full of supplies or exotic animals. She anticipated human resistance. She had never thought to watch for alien resistance.

Needless to say, by the time the alien mercenaries turned over the ship to the colony of Crystal, the blood had soaked into the ship’s fabric so much and so long, all the furniture had to stripped and thrown out.

But that wasn’t the important thing. What was important was that the pirate captain kept logs, contracts that weren’t supposed to exist and that she’d failed to erase, and identities of her contacts. A veritable goldmine.

The UNSC, of course, denied the allegations, but the damage was done. The colonies, including Chorus, sat down and drew-up space lanes and territory ranges and told the UNSC to abide, or else.

Incensed, the UNSC decided to launch an economic attack on the colonies. They began to construct toll units and patrol ships directly alongside to the new lanes. The goal was to charge merchants for crossing the borders into the different territories.

The colonies’ retaliation came in the form of the Gates.

Much like it sounded, the Gates were essentially a series of accelerated wormholes bridged between two portals. Unlike the standard subspace travel used by ships, the Gates were basically large teleportation devices. A ship went in and came out at the same time. There was a lot of science regarding space time, time-travel, and rumors of alien technology and some computer program based on one from a game about running, but in the end the result was easy to understand: pop in here, pop out here, avoid the tax.

Six months after the Gates went up, the Second Insurrectionist War began.

It wasn’t even started by the seventeen colonies. Rather, the War was started by nine other, much larger colonies that _were_ under UNSC jurisdiction, and who decided then was the best time to try to push their luck.

Needless to say, the UNSC wasn’t having it.

The war triggered a wave of refugees, from both sides. Some fled towards the Core. Others pushed further into space, settling onto the original seventeen colonies.

Both UNSC and Insurrectionist saw a potential problem in the Free Territories: their neutrality. The Free colonies refused to declare for either side. But they did see a profit in the making.

Moons were “loaned” out to both sides, and both sides acquired embassies in the Free Territories. Populated planets were “off-limits”. The moons…well, if both sides wished to pay rent and kill each other, all the better for the Free Territories.

 

Which brings one back to the Gates. The schematics were a closely guarded secret; neither Insurrectionist nor UNSC were allowed access to them, the free territories’ neutrality forbid it.

But if someone was on the inside, and didn’t believe in that neutrality, if they wanted the UNSC to _pay_ …

 

Dexter kept one eye on the two newcomers and the other on the glowing portal. His body manipulated the small ships control with little attention; two lifetimes of driving were paying off in spades.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about the strangers (not strangers, not really). He knew, on an instinctive level, that the woman and her behemoth of a friend were his friends, his family. He also knew that those people were technically dead. Hell, _he_ was technically dead.

Only the familiar form of Richard kept him from being even more nervous than he was. The man was calmly monitoring the ship’s readouts as the lifted off, and the sight eased the tension in Dexter’s chest. Even in all the confusion (and pain and anger and hopelessness and feeling of having been used, the sense that he would never be clean, the strain of going from being a weapon to being a _person_ in less than an hour) the knowledge that the once-marron clad soldier was beside him made the turmoil calm, the _rightness_ of it being so…freeing.

Through thick and thin, maroon and orange were always meant to stand shoulder to shoulder.

…when had he gotten so sappy?

Oh, right, about a week ago.

The small ship lurched as it lifted off the hanger floor, aiming it’s nose towards the violet portal. “Where does this lead?” he shouted over the roar of the engines.

“To freedom!” Richard responded, gesticulating wildly. “To either liberty or death!”

“I choose liberty!” called the woman, Carolina, though the name felt…wrong, to say.

The large man, Michael, peered out of the window. “If we don’t get going, you’re not going to get a choice!”

Dexter released a harsh breath. “All right, then” A saying popped into his head, one he felt was entirely justified for this situation. “Unto the breach.”

The ship rumbled forward, the nose piercing the portal and sliding smoothly forth. Then it reached the cockpit. There was a blinding flare of purple, and when the spots disappeared from Dexter’s eyes, all he could see was green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now we're getting into the background of this world, years after the Reds and Blues have passed.
> 
> Funny story: back when I was thinking about this story during season 13, I had it so Chorus was independent, and thought, "Oh ho, I'm so original!"
> 
> Then season 15 came out. (sigh)


	11. Chapter 11

His entire body ached and itched. Still, Lavernius reflected, it could have been worse. The itching meant he was healing after all; the infection had been cleared hours before, sickly pus dribbling liberally from the wound. Having never been truly sick before, the horrible experience of hot flashes, chill spells, nausea and thirst was one he hoped to never again encounter. Franklin had put thick stacks of mildewed paper covered with a scavenged blanket beneath him, and it wasn’t too bad, considering the only other experience he’d had was lying on the muddy ground.

The Colonel and Medic had left to see if they could find out the location of the signal, leaving Lavernius and Franklin to hold the fort, not that it would do much. Franklin was more of an explosives specialist apparently, and even with his fever dying down, Lavernius was in no shape to engage in combat.

Of course, the moment he thought this, the motion tracker lit up.

Both men tensed. The motion tracker was actually just a silent alarm informing one that the main door had been opened further in the factory. Colonel had explained the code: Unless it was an emergency, they were to close and open the door twice, close it again, and then leave it open for eight seconds before walking in and shutting it. Rudimentary, but efficient.

But the door wasn’t closing. Instead it remained open for over a dozen seconds before it closed. That meant one thing: there were multiple intruders in the base.

With nary a word, Franklin slid a spare pistol and clip over as Lavernius rolled off the makeshift cot, ignoring the agony that lanced up his side. He snagged a nearby screwdriver and both men slipped into the shadows of the room, Lavernius checking the ammo slot of his weapon as he did so.

A lifetime of training reared its head. Their breaths steadied, their muscles relaxed. Eyes gained clarity, lungs expanded to make room for extra oxygen. Adrenaline trickled through their veins, increasing their reaction times and serving as a painkiller for Lavernius’ wound.

Neither knew it, but their bodies had been specifically modified for their respective skill sets throughout a decade of trial and error. Lavernius’ bones had specifically been bred to ensure double-jointedness. His muscles were designed not for long endurance or raw strength, but to be able to quickly land a blow of devastating power in a single instant. Swordplay rarely lasted more than a few moments outside of exhibition; when the combatants came at each other with the intention to kill, there wasn’t a lot of wasted movement.

Franklin’s body was designed to similarly, though without the double-joint feature. Instead he was designed and trained to carry lean musculature in his upper torso: core, shoulders and arms. This allowed for whip-like moment in order to quickly and accurately throw out grenades further than normal. He also had rather dainty looking fingers, which, despite their look, allowed for quick bomb dis/armament, their size and surety allowing for tricky and difficult to reach components.

Months of learning to not catch the attention of a superior granted them unnerving stillness, the ability to flex their chests and joints in such a way as to force near-perfect stillness upon their bodies.

In conclusion, they were exactly what they’d been created to be: killing machines.

 

Leon Yale and his men weren’t technically supposed to be here. This planet was off-limits to Chorus personal, officially. This was one of the oddly positioned moons being used as a base of operations by the Insurrectionists, and Chorus, as part of the free territories, had sternly gave an official warning that they were not to interfere if the UNSC and the Insurrectionists wished to kill each other.

Unofficially, Yale and his men were spies.

Even though the Free Territories claimed neutrality, very few of them actually wanted the UNSC to win. If the military organization succeeded in their push to place the rebel colonies back under control, they once again had a stronger hold on the area close to the Free Territories. And though it may take a while, many feared that the UNSC would eventually begin pushing to regain the seventeen colonies again.

Essentially, Yale and his group were one of many groups examining the wins and losses of the Insurrectionists and the UNSC, gathering data to develop potential plans of action. Technically, they should have been gone.

But Yale and other had begun hearing of something odd happening in this sector. Of superweapons being developed on a secret base. Of clones, real ones, not sickly flash clones. Essentially, tank-bred Spartans.

The question was twofold: was it true, and if so, who was creating them?

Right now, they were scouring an old, bombed out factory, scanning it in hopes of creating a temporary base. There had been some reports of scavengers, but Yale was confident they could scare them off.

“West room, clear,” spoke a member of his squad. Yale had sent two people in each direction, hoping to establish a quick sweep of the premises before night fell.

Yale turned to his partner. The woman signaled an all clear, and Yale reported their successful sweep of the south over the comms. Good, they could meet in the main room as soon as Henry and Smith cleared it—

“North room scanned,” Smith reported. “Seems cle—“

An abrupt scuffle came over the comm. Yale’s heartrate quickened. “Smith?”

There was a quick panting sound then came Henry’s voice. “Shit, we have a man down. Unknown assailant. I repeat we h—“

A sound of a fist meeting Kevlar came over the comm, and another scuffling sound came over the microphone.

Yale was already running.

 

The first two men had gone down easy. They didn’t wear the usual uniform the Master’s had worn, so the two former experiments had refrained from killing them. It was the backup that they had to worry about. Taking the time to knock them out and Lavernius’ injury slowing him down had given no doubt given the men’s associates a warning.

If they used force they would die.

“Shit!”

A woman gawked at them in the dim before raising her weapon. “Free-!”

Franklin was already in her space. He twisted her arms up, forcing the gun out her grip, before kneeing her in the stomach and smashing her across the face with his newly pilfered gun.

Lavernius hurled his screwdriver with terrifying force, spearing it into the soldier of the man attempting to flank Franklin. His choked yell was abruptly silenced when Lavernius smashed his head into the crumbling wall.

Four down, who knew how many to go.

With proper weapons and able bodies, the two former experiments could take down a small army. As it was they weren’t necessarily losing, but with Laverinus’ injury, and only two guns between them, it certainly wasn’t ideal. Plus, they needed answers, and non-lethality was always harder to conduct than straight-up killing.

There was silence for a moment, the men’s bodies were unnaturally still, enhanced senses at full peak.

The moment they heard the voice, they immediately pointed their weapons at the source.

 

Yale wasn’t one who immediately rushed into a situation, despite his skillset. He was the kind of man who preferred to negotiate, to talk before he shot. And even though his protective instincts screamed at him to rush to the aid of his team, he held back and ordered his partner and the remainder of his squad to do the same.

“Hello, there!” he called into the gloom of the main room, forcing his voice to remain cheerful and carefree. “May I ask why you assaulted my agents?”

There was a moment of silence before someone responded. “Who are you and why have you come here?”

No shooting. That was good. Or bad, depending on who was holding the gun. They weren’t unwilling to talk, meaning they weren’t completely a bunch of wild, panicked rookies. On the other hand, wild panicked rookies were generally easier to take down if the situation demanded it.

Despite his best efforts, Yale couldn’t detect any type of accent or inflection on the words. Despite it being clearly human, there was a sort of blankness…to their tones, as if they had been raised by robots.

“We’re a retrieval squad from Chorus.” Yale went with the team’s cover story. It was a basic one, but beggars and choosers. “We got a distress call from here, landed not too far from it. We figured whoever called us may have bunkered down here.”

“Are you with the men in the black and grey uniforms?” the voice demanded.

Yale blinked. “The Insurrectionists?”

“They are bunkered on this planet.” There was a hesitation before the man added, “As well as others. I think.”

Yale was starting to put things together. “Yeah, that’s them. Are you hiding from them?”

A beat. “Yes.”

“Aright, then.” Yale gave a heavy sigh. This was stupid. Really, really stupid. But…”Do you request sanctuary?”

“From whom?”

“From Chorus.”

“ _Yale_ ,” his partner hissed. He gestured for her to be quiet.

“Chorus…” The man sounded contemplative. “There was a war there, yes? A civil war?”

Behind him, Yale could sense his team exchanging bewildered glances. He felt like joining them. “Well, yes. There was a war, but it was about a hundred years ago.”

“A hundred-“The man was clearly caught off guard and went silent.  

“You offered sanctuary?” he resumed a moment later. “What if it’s more than just me?”

The team tensed. Still, Yale kept his cool. “I don’t have the official capacity to make it permanent. But you haven’t killed my men. And we did stumble into your place. If you—and your friend—mean no harm, then you won’t come to harm. “

Hesitation.

“You have my word,” Yale swore.

After yet another pause, there was a clatter on the floor. The team instantly flinched back, but it was not a grenade as first suspected. Instead, a battle rifle was thrown out of the gloom to slide to a stop at Yale’s feet. A magnum swiftly followed. There was a shuffling sound, like something was being dragged, and then two men emerged in the doorway.

All but Yale immediately raised their weapons.

“Stand down!” Yale barked at them.

The men both dragged the rest of Yale’s team forward, before stopping, releasing the unconscious men and women, and swiftly backing away, hands up.

“Huh.” Yale’s partner muttered. “They look kind of familiar.”

Indeed, they did. Yale had a nagging sense he’d seen these men before. Shrugging it off, Yale asked with forced calm, “Are you the only ones?”

The shorter of the two men looked at him. “No,” he admitted. This was not the same person that had been talking to them before. No doubt his previous silence before was to conceal their numbers. “We have at least one more person coming back.”

“At _least_?” One of Yale’s men demanded.

“We’re not the only ones trying to get out,” the man responded in a clipped tone.

“Well then,” Yale holstered his weapon. Despite their surrender, both men radiated a sense of danger. The taller of the two, the one who Yale had apparently been negotiating with, was clearly injured. Best to get them to put them at ease, if even for a bit. “You two have names?”

The men exchanged glances. “I have been named Franklin,” the short one answered.

“Lavernius.” Was the other short response.

Yale frowned. Franklin wasn’t an unusual name, but Lavernius? It was familiarly unfamiliar. Where had he that from…?

“Boss?” The last member of his team spoke up, his voice deep and rumbling. “Don’t they kind of look like those statues downtown…?”

Yale squinted. Now that he had heard it, it was true they looked kind of like the statues. Those statues were carved shortly after the War: twenty-foot monuments to the heroes that had come and saved Chorus was destroying itself.

The War.

The familiar looks.

The men’s unfamiliarity with what was common history in this sector.

The unusual name.

The rumors of cloned, tank-bred super soldiers.

An icy shiver flitted down Yale’s spine. “Holy shit,” he breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, for the long wait guys. Thought I'd get this written up before my finals start, so I could buckle down and study. :)
> 
> Also, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, bookmarked, and kudos-ed, even throughout my sporadic updates!  
> Thank you guys, for so much support!


	12. Chapter 12

The problem with having the overwhelming majority of your education beamed into your brain before you were technically born was that it was mostly all theoretical.

For example, he knew that mitigating the damage to survive a plane crash (feet flat, hands free) though studied, was by no means always the same method.  Theory could only take you so far. He theoretically knew how to survive a crash. Practically, he was panicking to survive a crash  _ in water _ .

Michael could barely see in the dark plane. The water had rushed in before he could seal his helmet and he ended up wasting precious seconds of air ripping his jammed harness out of the wall to free himself. Even under water, he could hear the protesting moan as the plane was dragged down into the depths. 

A brief flash of light showed from behind him, and he realized he’d gotten turned around in the darkness as what he assumed to be the sun shone for a slipt second through the shattered windshield at the front of the craft.

Kicking his feet, he was pleasantly surprised to find that the act of swimming came naturally to him, despite the inability to remember if he’d ever been in a body of water before now. His long limbs cut powerfully through the water, heading for the tilitng outline of the broken window.

By the time he managed to extricate himelf from the wreckage, his vision had started to grow worringly dizzy. Another problem with flash training: his Creators had tried to create a weapon that didn’t have too much power, but still had some autonomy to complete his missions. It was like trying to create a supercomputer but not testing it often in fear of breaking it. While he could apparently swim, that didn’t mean he was a good swimmer. A good swimmer had experience on their side. Very few moves were wasted and time and effort had allowed their bodies to do so with less air consumption.

He couldn’t see his friends. All he could do was desperately pump his arms and legs, trying to reach the light that got simultaneously brighter and dimmer.

His vision was turning black.

He ended up reaching the surface on the verge of passing out, his mouth gaping like a fish as carbon dioxide rushed out of his strained lungs, and his body struggled to remember how to inhale, still shocked at having been on the cusp of death.

A rough hand seized him by his collar, pulling him out of the water to the edge of what appeared to be a lake.

“Put your weapons down, or the big one dies!” barked the voice of whomever was holding him.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

He was not putting up with this annoyance.

The armor the man holding his by his breastplate wore was basic, factory produced, with no visible enhancements or upgrades. A boon for him, really. Better armor might have mitigated the damage of Michael’s punch, and made him suffer more.

As it was, the shock of the blow caving in half of the ribs on his right side and rupturing a number of blood vessels and organs was such that he simply collapsed with a shocked wheeze, slipping quickly into unconsciousness and then death.

“Holy--!”

Michael launched himself forward, covering the distance faster than two of the men could react. He seizd one by the helmet and simply body-checked the other, sending him flying. The man whom he held shrieked as micheal’s enourmous mitts twisted and bent plasteel, cracking the visor and driving shredded material through the skull. Eventualy, the pressure was too much, and with a wet crunch! the skull cracked then broke.

Desperate slaps of armor against armor were heard as the man whom Micheal had sent flying was strangled by the Griff’s-honestly, Micheal thought the name Dex sounded better-boot, his thick bulk easily crushing the soldiers esophagus. Eventually, Dex shifted his foot slightly and bore down again, the new angle yielding better under pressure. A muted crunching noise signalled the breaking of the man’s neck. 

Dex casually wiped his foot off on the corpse's armor and glanced up at him. Michael wondered if the helmet was hiding a similarly smug sneer as his own was.

 

Richard wondered why humans tended to devolve into shouting and cursing and threats that they had no way of seeing through. Case in point, the lone sodier they curently had at gunpoint on the ground besides the lake. The soldier clearly wasn't top-tier regarding hand-to-hand (though in his defense, Carolina had engaged him, and if Richard’s fragmented (borrowed?) memories served him right, there wasn't much that could stop an injured, older, regular Carolina, let alone an enhanced, younger and healthier Carolina), as evidenced by him having apparently been assigned to launch the rocket that had impacted with their engines.

The man was spitting and sneering and cursing. He also called Carolina a variety of names that appeared to be quite derogatory. Hence, his kneeling; Richard had broken his leg. Perhaps that was why he was cursing; Richard noted the piece of bone poking out through muscle and kevlar.

“I don’t know shit so don’t bother asking.” the man spat.

Richard nudged his broken leg. The man choked in pain. “Nothing?”

“No!”

“You know we’re going to kill you if you don’t give us something, right?”

“You don’t have the guts!” the soldier exclaimed with bravado as Dexter and the mountain that was Michael gathered around them.

“....”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...You’re serious?” Dexter deadpanned.

The man paled, seemingly just remembered that the people around him had effortlessly and ruthlessly killed about six other people in the span of a few moments. Or maybe, it was just the pain, since Dexter had curiously toed the awkwardly angled leg.

“He looks he was part of a token force,” Carolina commented. “Considering where we came out from, they probably didn't want to draw too much attention to this place.”

Richard squinted in the direction she’d indicated and had to agree. They had been propelled from a large, but naturally forming, cave entrance. While the angle he could see wasn't great, he was willing to bet the cave itself wasn't too large. Granted, one probably only had to make sure the entrance was large enough, given from what he’d manage to observe of the purple portal they’d escaped through.

“Did you know who we were?” Richard questioned.

The man appeared to be trying to stay stubbornly quiet, but quickly caved when Richard's foot edged towards his leg. “No! You lot didn't answer any hails, so we shot you down. Plus your ship was all banged up anyway, and all alone. We figured you were UNSC spies or something trying to escape Styx.”

Richard and the other exchanged glances. He wasn't wrong.

“You bunch black ops or something? Goddamn ninjas or some shit?”

“What is Styx?” Richard replied instead.

The man stares incredulously. “You just came from there. What kind of spies are--are you prisoners?”

“What is the UNSC?”

“...You’re joking, right?”

“No,” Richard replied, completely serious.

The man jolted, stared at them, shook his head and then stared some more. “You’re one of those Projects, aren't you? You all are.” His disbelief was edged with awe and a healthy sliver of fear.

Carolina cocked her magnum. “The UNSC.”

The man was now ataring at each of them, examing them. “It’s...complicated. They're officially supposed to just be the military part of the UEG--”

“UEG?” Richard interrupted.

“Uh, United Earth Goverment. You know, overall big kumbaya of Earth?”

He was met by blank helmets. 

“Or maybe you don’t. Okay.” He shifted slightly and went slightly green as a result. “Is,” he said in a strained voice, “there anyway you can get a doctor?”

“Answers first.” Richard was adamant.

“Alright. I get that. But uh, I’m about to pass out in a minute. High pain tolerance only goes so far.”

Dexter shuffled slighty. “It is a little cruel to keep him like this, I think.”

“But he’s one of THEM,” Michael sneered.

“So we become like them, right?” Dexter shot back. “We torture and kill and hurt and become exactly what we created to be, is that what you’re saying?”

Michael shrank back, mollified in the face of Dexter’s anger. “No! I mean--” He stopped himself, turning away slighty. “I don't know what I meant.”

“Uh, guys?” Carolina interrupted. “Three things: 1) Michael didn't mean it, so get off your high horse, Dex. 2) Soldier boy’s passed out now. And 3) I have no idea where I learned these words from. Also, uh, there’s a fourth one. There’s a car coming from the south.”

 

The Colonel (could he call himself that? The man who’s DNA he was based off of had been a colonel, long ago. He felt that truth in his soul (soul? Could a copy have a soul? But he was an incomplete--no. Not now. Later. So many questions for later.), but...adding “The” in front of his adopted moniker made it feel less personal, less human.

Perhaps that was best. Most days, he still didn't know what it meant to be human.) was at a bit of a loss in regards to the situation.

Four somewhat familiar faces, helmets off, in soaking wet armor. Another, unfamiliar form, unconscious behind them. A burning lake and a myriad if dead bodies.

Then again, he was a wearing the face of a dead man, so…

Only one thing to do.

“Well, hello there,” he drawled. “Are you friendly? Really would like that to be true, because I’d hate to waste good shells on a sorry-looking bunch like you.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello? I'm back.
> 
> (Stares at empty room)
> 
> ...There's pizza?
> 
> But seriously, hold on. Epilogue is next chapter, along with more of an explanation regarding this story, and where I want to go from here.


End file.
